


Mine!

by LokisGirl



Category: Metallica
Genre: Dubious Consent, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokisGirl/pseuds/LokisGirl
Summary: Jason remembers being in the shower after a gig. Why is he in the emergency room? Why can't he stop thinking about James? What did James do to Kirk?OrJames is horribly possessive of everyone in the band. His need to mark them as his nearly has tragic results. Jason's injury reveals secrets no one could ever have guessed at.
Relationships: James Hetfield/Jason Newsted
Comments: 11
Kudos: 14





	Mine!

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted elsewhere 2013-ish. 
> 
> Please be aware that the internal and external homophobia in this one is really fucking deep. (Don't worry, happy endings are happy!)

The light glinted off James’ hair, that long blond mop that made me stare every time I saw him, that made me want to run my fingers through it, that made me want to touch every inch of him. It almost hurt, that longing for physical contact. James was so shy, so quiet. I had no clue how he would react if I ever made a pass at him. Not even a pass, but even a casual compliment that might open that door. I’d seen the look on his face those rare occasions when a real gay guy wandered into one of our shows- that deer in headlights look, as if he didn’t know whether to punch the guy out or run for the hills. Whether he was actually homophobic was debatable- he’d made a show out of calling me gay in the press. It was a joke as far as he was concerned, designed to humiliate me. Hazing the Newkid again, hah hah. If it hurt, well, that was just too bad. I’d have to develop thicker skin, be more of a man. Being a man was important to James, the constant need to prove himself, his strength, leading to a daily display of drunken bravado. Watching him get into fist fights did something to me on a primal level. My body responded to him involuntarily, testosterone levels rising to the point where I imagined I could actually feel raw maleness coursing through my veins. Funny, being attracted to another guy was supposed to make you effeminate, a weakling. Wanting James made me feel more like a man than I ever had before. 

I walked a little straighter, held my shoulders straighter. I took to working out in the hotel rooms before getting back on the bus in the morning. My arms got defined pretty quickly, and I discovered that the increase in my metabolism allowed me to live up to the Alcoholica legend without the horrific hangovers I got in the early days. Partying with the boys every night made me feel a little less alone, even though it never helped me forget that I wasn’t Cliff. When James was drunk, he was vicious, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was still an unwelcome replacement. A necessary evil.

The drinking made it easier to hide my staring compulsion. A case of beer and a bottle of Jack on stage, and James was well past noticing if my eyes lingered on the lines of his body in the dressing room. Showering with the band after the show was nearly unbearable, the water running down his chest, dripping from that blond hair. I took to thinking intently about all sorts of boring or disgusting things in the locker room. Sometimes I tried so hard not to notice what was going on that I left myself open. The night I showered alone, concentrating on the tiles, studiously counting the white and black squares alternating on the wall to avoid thinking about James, I found myself in trouble. My hands in my hair, lather running down my body, steam rising. I relaxed and closed my eyes, letting the hot water melt the tension from my shoulders. The next thing I knew I was being tackled and thrown to the floor. James was on top of me. Naked and on top of me. I struggled to get away. He pinned one of my arms over my head. I pushed at him with my free hand, my fingers slipping down his wet chest. The pain in my shoulder where I hit the floor made me dizzy, which is why I didn’t move quick enough to prevent James from making his next move. He fastened his teeth onto my neck and bit down hard. Through the haze of pain and alcohol, I heard the most incredible sound I’ve ever experienced in my life: James growling around my flesh. Not a hardcore, aggressive growl like what he puts on our records; a deep throated sexual sound from way deep down inside. It hit me like a highway tractor at the exact second my hand finished slipping down his wet body, coming to a stop at the juncture of his pelvis and his very hard cock. 

I withdrew my hand as if it was on fire. Using my whole body, I managed to roll out from beneath James, cradling my hurt shoulder. I tried to raise myself from the floor and blacked out.

Awakening in a hospital emergency ward, I discovered Lars and Kirk at my bedside. “What happened?” I moaned. The buzzing in my head was enough to tell me I’d gotten painkillers from somewhere. 

“Dude, you passed out in the shower after the show,” Kirk grinned. “Didn’t anyone tell you that’s what the Tub Tarts are for? The girls will catch your drunk ass!” 

I blushed, my cheeks burning- I didn’t want to think about what had just happened. At all. Right now, I just wanted to make sure my shoulder was okay. It throbbed through the pharmaceuticals, making me think I might have a real problem. 

I tried to raise my arm, and got a searing jolt of white hot pain for my trouble. Kirk grabbed my wrist to hold me down. “Don’t try to do anything with it just yet. The doctors are looking at the x-rays right now. They say you might have separated your shoulder when you fell.”

Gaping in jaw-dropping shock, I realized what that meant. No more Metallica, no more bass, no more music. No more life. I panicked. “Motherfucking Hetfield! I’m going to fucking kill him for this!” Rage propelled me out of the bed as I continued my tirade. “Bastard! Asshole! Sonofabitch!” I punctuated each word by pummelling my good fist into the drywall beside a heart monitor. It spiked and began beeping incessantly. I tore the electrodes off my chest and stormed out in a thin hospital gown. Halfway through the waiting room, Lars and Kirk caught up with me.

“Wait! Jason! What the hell are you talking about? You can’t leave now. What about your shoulder?” Lars always asks too many questions at once. I stopped dead and glared at him.

"Obviously, James wants me out of the band so bad he’s willing to wreck my life to do it. I’m leaving. Now.” 

“Fuck what James wants. Kirk and I want you in, so he’s outvoted. How is this his fault in the first place?” Lars ran his hand over his face like he always does when he’s uncomfortable.

I started to explain, and caught my words before they made it out of my throat. I swallowed miserably. No way in hell was I telling Lars or Kirk about any of this. I didn’t understand what happened, so how could I? All I knew for sure was that James attacked me; I didn’t know why. I shook my head in mute fury.

Kirk, ever the peace maker, stepped in. “Tell you what, Jase. Go get dressed, and we’ll just go back to the hotel and have a drink, okay? We can always come back tomorrow to see what the doctor says.” 

Kirk’s plan seemed fine, right up until we figured out that I couldn’t get dressed alone. I didn’t have enough movement in my shoulder to put on a shirt. Pissed off didn’t even begin to cover it. The t-shirt the guys brought for me was quickly tossed aside in favour of the flannel shirt Kirk had on. He gingerly helped me into it and did up the buttons without making a single joke. Kirk may be quirky some times; he’s also very perceptive. I could see his brain working over time trying to figure out how my accident could possibly be Hetfield’s fault. He spent a considerable amount of time attempting to check out the black teeth marks on my neck inconspicuously. No comment on that, either. Suited me fine- I had nothing to say there. My shoulder was starting to swell. 

“How did I get here?” I asked the guys as I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, one shoe dangling from my foot in a failed attempt to tie it myself. Lars knelt down, fixing the stray shoe. He looked up at me from the floor, warmth and concern in his eyes. 

“Well,” he said slowly, “I’m not clear on what happened before I found you on the bathroom floor. How much did you drink tonight, dude? I don’t remember it being any more than usual.” 

“Musta been a fluke thing. Did I eat dinner? I don’t remember,” I mused aloud. If Lars found me in the shower, then James just left me there when I blacked out. Just left me there on the tile, hurt and unconscious. What a great guy. He had his moments, sure. We didn’t use the word alcoholic for real; it was always lurking under the surface. His depressions, outbursts of temper, and inability to bite his tongue were just things we took in stride. James wasn’t malicious at heart; the opposite in fact. My anger flared again as I tried to understand why he just left me there. It was a prank gone wrong; I had no problem with the attack itself, just the bit where he abandoned me unconscious. Over the years, I’d done my fair share of pranking. It was all in fun whether it included replacing Lars’ sneakers with bunny slippers or chasing Kirk with a fire extinguisher. We always knew when enough was enough, and if things got rough, we picked each other up. That’s what friends do. I began to wonder what I had done to James for the rules not to apply any more. 

The cab ride back to the hotel was bumpy and uncomfortable. My shoulder throbbed every time we hit a bump. Lars sat in the back with me. He wore the look of blank expectancy that almost always conned people into spilling their guts. Lars usually got his own way, especially when he wanted information. That little smile made you want to trust him (and make him happy, which meant telling him whatever he wanted to know. Manipulative Danish midget!). I glared out the window, clenching and unclenching my fist to an internal rhythm of rage. Wishing I had somewhere to go that wasn’t the hotel James was at, somewhere I could be alone for a while. When I’m aggravated, playing my bass is one of the only ways I can get it out of my system. Now I had no outlet, thanks to fucking Hetfield. I felt trapped by the red hot coals seething away inside me. Lars spoke softly, almost to himself.

“When your body just isn’t up to the job of getting your feelings out, it doesn’t leave you a choice. You have to find a new way to express yourself,” he said quietly. I reeled- was Lars reading my mind?

“My body is just fucking fine, thanks very much,” I spat, suddenly deciding that no matter what, I wasn’t giving anyone a chance to say that I wasn’t doing my part to keep Metallica rolling. I’d be out there playing whether or not my goddamned arm fell off. I’m a Michigan boy, we know a thing or two about work ethic. When I was a kid, I’d work til 3 am at the Taco Bell near my house, then go home and practice bass til my fingers bled. Pain is irrelevant to achieving your goals. Proving myself in Metallica, once again, was now a goal. Get out of my way.

Lars sighed as though he was trying to turn himself inside out and massaged his face. He was shut down and he knew it. “Just think about it, for your own sanity,” he suggested gently. He turned to Kirk in the front seat. “Did you call Justin to order the booze? I don’t want to pay minibar prices for the amount of drinking we’re gonna do tonight.” 

Kirk laughed. “Yeah, I got it covered. Justin’s a little pissed. He was all ‘I’m a guitar tech, not a fucking delivery service!” 

Kirk’s impression of his tech managed to break through my bleak mood. I could hear Justin saying those exact words in his slightly British accent. It made me smile. I knew if nothing else, the guys on the crew were my friends. They’d all be around to see if I was all right, if I needed anything. James’ behaviour makes me question the loyalty of the whole band- where he goes, everyone else will end up.

So very wrong, that’s what I was. I looked around the smoke-filled hotel room, grinning at the empty buzz in my head and the lack of pain in my shoulder. Lars pulled off a miracle, finding me some Ontario Hydro style weed in the middle of nowhere. It was great shit, a full on body buzz that solved my pain issue better than any narcotic could have, and it reminded me of Denis and my buddies in Voivod. My bandmates were right on the money tonight, making me feel more like a friend to them than I ever did before. From my position flat on my back in the middle of the bed I raised a beer in my good hand; I concentrated on getting the liquid into my mouth and not onto the sheets. It almost worked. Kirk laughed that infectious laugh; divesting me of the suds. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. “This will be easier. Just don’t forget to swallow!” He poured the beer through my open lips and I immediately choked on it, which made both of us laugh harder.

Lars howled. “That’s what you do when James tells you to swallow!” 

Sudden silence descended. I wiped my face with the sleeve of the flannel I wore. Was this an inside joke I didn’t understand? Seconds ticked by conspicuously. Kirk and Lars were locked in an intense exchange of meaningful glances. Once again, that outsider feeling descended on me. The long stressful night at the hospital collided with the booze and weed to create Jason Newsted, Whiny Waste Case. “Guuuuuyss….. you hafta telll me what’s going on! I don’t understand! You two are keeping secrets and James hates me! What the fuck did I doooooooo?” 

Kirk looked down at me with that tiny smile he wears when he shares things that are too personal for his comfort. “You’re not the first one to get a Mighty Hetfield hickey.” 

“It’s not-“ I protested vainly.

“It is so. I had one too, back in the day. Hell, I had a lot of them. All over.” 

My head swam. “You guys are gay? I’ve been in the band for 2 years and no one bothered to tell me my main cats were playing for the other team? That’s rough, guys.” Little waves of betrayal began to lick the back side of my eyes, pushing through a little bit as a tear ran down my cheek. Kirk idly brushed it away, his smile growing a little twisted.

“It wasn’t like that. At all. James is very possessive, as you know. He’s very driven by his kama, his desire. Mostly it comes from his confusion about the meaning of love. He sees it as suffering to be carried. If he’s going to suffer, so are you.”

I blinked up at the spackled ceiling through Kirk’s curls. The light made weird patterns that shifted as my eyes opened irregularly. I wagged an impotent finger in Kirk’s direction, opened my mouth to speak, and wound up shaking my head instead. I felt truly lost. I bounced my hand off the bed beside my hip, trying to drum up a coherent thought. 

“Okaaay. I don’t think I get it. James is suffering, so you let him bite you, actually fucking bite you, all over? Dude, that’s twisted.” 

Lars was laughing hysterically. Again. Whether it was my confusion or Kirk’s obvious discomfort, something set him off. “He’s been here two years, and is just figuring out there’s something wrong with James? Oh god, Quirk, we got ourselves a genius in the band!” 

Kirk gave him a laser sharp look of disgust. “Lars, shut up.” Kirk took a deep drag on the joint he was holding and passed it to me. “James is so fucking insecure, he needs to mark you. You belong to him, to us. He wants to make sure you can’t leave him. Or the band. That’s what it comes down to.”

More head shaking and bedtapping on my part. This was not sinking into my head in any way that made an iota of sense. Cleary I looked as lost as I felt.

“It’s ok for me,” Kirk said softly. “I don’t talk about it, ever, but I’m not exactly 100% straight. More like a six on the Kinsey scale than a full ten.” 

Lars couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Sliding a hand through his hair and sticking his chest out like a porn bimbo he howled, “He also thinks Hetfield’s a sexy motherfucker!” making the word sexy sound like it had about eighteen “exes” in it. He collapsed back into the couch cushions kicking his feet in the air like a little kid. His raucous laughter continued on until he managed to choke himself on it. He coughed a few times, and I couldn’t help but grin at the situation. I was pretty sure I must be hallucinating. Fuck, this was great weed.

I tried again. “So… James is an insecure queer and you’re almost gay. Nope, I still don’t get it. And if he has you, why was he messing with me? I have never once, ever, crossed the line with any guy. No interest in it whatsoever.” I shook my head vehemently. “No way, no day!” My body seemed to float off the bed a little, drifting on my private cloud. Seconds ticked by slowly. My outward denial was a total lie- my mind was occupied with visions of James at various times over the years, skateboarding, playing basketball, sprawled out on that ridiculous little padded bench on the bus that passed for a couch. The images that kept drawing me back to him, made me wonder if something had changed in me; that also made me both guilty and hot. A rush of desire swept through me, my little cloud floated higher. My mental slideshow clicked past my eyelids faster- James, shirt off and sweating under stadium lights, head thrown back with that tempting, taunting hair thrashing down his back. In the dressing room after the show, his hands trailing down the taut planes of his chest as he dried off. I imagined Kirk face to face with James, rubbing at James’ hair with a towel, then using the ends to pull him in for a deep kiss. My cloud dissipated instantly and I flopped back to reality.  
“Ummm… idle curiosity... what do you do with him? I mean, when he’s all bitey?” My face flushed. As wasted as I was, I knew that was not something Kirk probably wanted to share.

“Well, we-”

Lars butted in again. “Why don’t you just show him the tapes?” he clapped his hands together like this was the punchline of some great joke he’d been dying to tell. His eyes were huge, just like the smirk on his face.

“Tapes? There are tapes? For reals?” I sat bolt upright, grabbing Kirk to lever myself up. I draped my arm around his shoulder for balance. Looking Kirk dead in the eye so he couldn’t lie to me, I asked “Why would you do that? If something like got out- I don’t know what would happen. The press, oh god.”

“I made a deal. A long time ago when I first joined the band, I walked in on James and Dave. In New York,” Kirk’s tone was confessional. His eyes were blurry and red. I didn’t know if it was from the smoke or if he was tearing up. “They were fighting over something Mustaine found in James’ gig bag. He went looking for guitar strings, and I guess he found a tape instead. Of James and Cliff. By the time I got there, the tape was smashed, and James had Dave on the floor. Hetfield was going crazy, man, just beating the everloving snot out of Mustaine, feeding him his fist hardcore. Dave bleeding all over the place, his nose busted. James bawling like someone ran over his grandma. He was fucking crazy.”

Kirk paused, pounding back the rest of the beer in his hand. Lars was silent. In fact he looked vaguely shocked. I guess he didn’t know the whole story either.

Kirk’s adam’s apple bobbed noticeably as he swallowed. “So I managed to pull Hetfield off Mustaine. Dave didn’t help, kept screaming that he’d never be in a band with a bunch of pansies, that everyone would know what a queer James was, blah blah blah. I had a lot of trouble holding James back, you know how he gets when he sees red. I finally managed to drag James outta there to another room in the back of the bar.”

My brain was working overtime. “You weren’t even in the band then.”

“I know. I guess this is the secret true history of Metallica,” Kirk’s wry smile returned. “I’d gone to New York to hang out with my buddy Dan Lilker. Brian Slagel told us about the Metallica show, so we went to see them. I came backstage to say hey to Lars, and this is what I got for my trouble. I saved Mustaine’s life, no doubt about it.”

“Dude, that’s heavy,” I lit a cigarette, took a drag, and passed it to Kirk. He looked like he needed one. He nodded slowly and took a puff of his own. 

“Hetfield kept punching the wall over and over; he was gonna break his hand. I started feeding him shots to keep him busy until he calmed down. At this point, I’m totally in the dark as to what the hell happened. I mean, we all knew that those two went all caveman around each other, but this- man, this was way more than a little bandmate dustup, you know?

“James was pretty wasted, and he kept going on about the tape. The tape, the tape, it was all he had left. So of course I have to ask. Stupid me. ‘What was on the tape, James?’ As if it was any of my fuckin’ business,” Kirk dragged deeply, the smoke curling around the two of us. Somehow it felt very confessional. The curtains were finally being drawn back, I was seeing the true face of Metallica. 

“He didn’t want to tell me, shouldn’t have told me at all. Hetfield was just about ready to burst though. I figured I had to get it out of him before he killed someone, probably Mustaine. So I sit there on the storage room floor, cold cement making my fuckin’ ass numb, and pass that bottle of vodka back and forth with James until I get the whole sorry story. How it wasn’t supposed to be like that, how he wasn’t a goddamn queer, he wasn’t raised that way,” Kirk dripped sarcasm, “how it had never happened before. Blah blah blah,” Kirk gestured with those long hands, mockingbird fingers dismissing the obvious. “Finally he comes around to saying who. It was Cliff. Hetfield was hot for Cliff. Seems they had a thing for a few months.”

“And James was that pissed about getting busted? Maybe they shouldn’t have taped it,” I speculated, silently wishing I could have seen that. I shoved a strand of reddish hair behind my ear.

“That wasn’t the whole problem. Sure, he was horrified that Mustaine, of all people, knew their secret. It was worse because Cliff dumped him.”

“Cliff was leaving Metallica?” My eyes just about bugged out of my head. The idea of the band without Cliff was bizarre, even after his death. I should know. But leaving before, that was shocking.

“Hell no. Cliff was not fucking leaving Metallica! Cliff would never leave us,” Lars cut in, glaring daggers from the couch. 

“Got that right,” Kirk pointed at Lars in agreement. “He wasn’t leaving the band. Even then, the band was bigger than the members. Metallica is a force unto itself, a monster that must be fed. And respected. Cliff understood that. I think he loved James, like we all do. He just couldn’t live with the demands and constant reassurance James needs. James’ll suffocate you and not even notice. He’s so afraid of being alone that he clings like stink on a zombie. The tape was insurance, I guess. James held onto it so Cliff couldn’t leave the band. Sort of a mutual self destruction agreement. You know what would happen if it got out- metal fans are not exactly gay positive.”

A short bitter bark of laughter escaped me. “Uh huh. You try being called Jizz-on-you-Stud.” I flicked my cigarette butt at Lars pointedly. 

“Sorry, dude. I didn’t say it! What did you want me to do? I’m just the trommer.” Lars shrugged. “I can’t control him. Clearly. Otherwise, none of this shit would have happened. Not with Mustaine, Hammett, or you now.”

Kirk rolled his shoulders down, noticeably shrinking under the weight of what he was saying. I squeezed his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. It’s fucking weird, but it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s just it, Jase. I did. I let this happen,” Kirk was seriously welling up with tears now. I squeezed him a bit tighter. “Mustaine did the smart thing. He packed up and got the hell out of Dodge. Me, I answered the phone when Lars called to say they wanted me to join the band. I should have said no.”

“Fuck that,” Lars spat. “I should have stayed with Mustaine and gotten you to replace James. Sometimes he’s a fucking psycho, and this is one of those times. Fuck.”

“Oh, please,” Kirk sneered. “You can’t leave him any more than he can leave you. Which is not at all. The pair of you would fucking die alone.”

“That might be true, but at least I don’t have to suck him off once a year to prove my loyalty!” 

My worldview shattered into a million tiny pieces of disbelief. “Whafuck?!” I hopped off the bed and started pacing. I turned to Kirk and tried to speak. Nothing. I paced away, turned quick, and came back to Lars. I opened my mouth to silence once again.  
Kirk looked as though he was going to be sick. His normally tanned skin was a sallow greenish shade, as though his entire body had become one giant bruise. He raised open hands in a gesture of defeat.

Trust the Danish midget to be the only one who could come up with anything to say. “It’s been going on since you got with us, all that energy between you two, that weird vibe that I didn’t fucking get. Those little glances, uh, now it makes sense. I didn’t get it until I saw those fucking tapes at James’ house or whatever. Hetfield fucking blackmailed you into proving your loyalty and you went along with it. It’s fucking weak, Hammett.”

“Weak? In case you didn’t fucking notice, there have been a lot of times when I’ve been the only thing holding this goddamn band together! I am the strong one here- I put my ego aside and do what needs to be fucking done,” Kirk exploded. For the first time ever, I saw him raise a fist at another person. At Lars. Oh my fucking god, my band was imploding.

“Maybe telling fucking Hetfield to fucking grow up might work better than getting on your fucking knees in front of a fucking camera! Fuck!” 

I found my voice. It came out lost and strangled, but it was back. “Woah, guys, calm down. Someone tell me what’s going on, please.” I rubbed at my shoulder, feeling the tension bring back the pain.

“It’s your problem, you tell him,” Lars snarked. He pulled at his hair, right on top where he was starting to thin. I randomly wondered if shit like this was the reason he was going bald.

“Fine. Just let me do it my way, okay?” Kirk mellowed as quickly as his temper had flared. I sat down on the couch beside Lars. Confusion swirled all around me. Hetfield? Hammett? Together? 

“A couple of months after I officially joined the band, James and I were out drinking, as usual. It was the just the two of us. My girlfriend left me the same day, so I was a bit maudlin. We started talking about relationships, which we hardly ever did. Partly, I avoided the subject. I had no idea whether Hetfield’s girlfriends were for real or what. After about twenty beers, I slipped up and mentioned Cliff as his ex.

“James got real quiet, even more than when he’s sober. Which is something, cos you know when he’s dry there’s no getting a word out of him. Finally he says in a whisper that he’s afraid. Of what? He thinks Cliff will leave Metallica now that he’s got no reason to stay. That Cliff and I are going to go off and start our band without a fag lead singer. There’s no place for queers in metal, and no place for him in our band. That we’ll take Lars and go,” Kirk’s voice is flat, distant. His gaze is on Lars and I, but he doesn’t see us if you know what I mean. He sees that bar booth, that sad boy sitting across from him. 

**************************************************

Kirk softly laid his hand over James’ on the scratched table, right there in the bar with people all around. He gave it a gentle squeeze. James looked up from under the safety blanket of hair falling into his eyes. His gaze met the luminous warmth of Kirk’s as Kirk laced their fingers together, promising “Anywhere I’m going, you’re coming with me.” A decision made, Kirk slid out of the booth, not letting go until James followed. 

They sat in companionable silence through a crosstown cab ride, past the park with a view of Golden Gate Bridge, ending their quiet journey in front of Kirk’s apartment building. Kirk opened the car door, and poured himself to a standing position. James paid the cabbie; they were left standing on the curb, kicking at the dead grass under the streetlights. Kirk bounced a little on his toes, nerves propelling him to any sort of action at all. What was he doing? He stole a glance up and down the deserted street, then embraced James as quickly as he could. Kissing him for a split second, he immediately dropped his arms and bounded around the corner towards the staircase leading up the side of the building to his front door. A long crack twisted up the plaster wall, patched with putty that didn’t quite match. In front of the door to 2B, he dug in his jeans for the keys, bathed in darkness. The balcony above blocked the moonlight where he stood but didn’t quite reach the landing at the top of the stairs. James appeared there, moonlight making him shine like a drunken angel. He looked very young, his blue eyes timid. 

“Kirk?” He squinted into the shadows. Kirk irrationally held his breath for a second, then exhaled slowly. Reaching for James, pulling the taller youth into the darkness with him, snaking his arms around the lithe form, kissing him for real this time. Light and dark, they fell into each other for a moment, tasting the sparks where their lips met and hands groped uncertainly. Seconds, or maybe an eternity passed. Kirk pulled back.

“Okay,” he panted, his breath hot, still close enough for James to feel it on his neck. 

“Okay what?” James stiffened, territorially locking his arms around Kirk as though he could prevent his friend having second thoughts. Kirk ran his long fingers through James’ hair, brushing it back from his face. 

“Okay, I can do this. I think,” Kirk turned to the door, unlocking it without disengaging James. Reaching backwards, he hooked his finger into James’ belt loop and urged him inside. Moments later, they fell in a heap on the battered couch by the window, locked in a kiss that could have fused glass. Need amplified as hands slid under tshirts, exploring mouths tasted skin oddly familiar yet brand new. Breaking the kiss to pull a worn out Three Stooges shirt over James’ head, Kirk found himself caught in an iron grip. James had him by the biceps, freezing the action.

“Why are you doing this?” James asked in a whisper. That whisper was laden with all the tremulous hope, fear, and confusion of a lifetime. That whisper told Kirk everything he needed to know, that there was no backing out now, this was all or nothing.

“Because you need me to,” Kirk said simply. He shook himself free of James, searching the room for something. A video camera was hooked up to the VCR by the TV. Kirk flipped the record button to the ON position, and stripped his own shirt off on the way back to James. Straddling the wiry blond, he resumed kissing James’ neck as if they had never stopped. He scraped his short nails down the hairless chest until his fingers came to rest on James’ belt buckle. A second’s hesitation, masked by his mouth’s return to James’ lips, and the buckle was open. Button and zipper followed suit, the teeth of the zipper scratching Kirk’s wrist as he worked his fingers into James’ tight jeans. The blond arched his back into Kirk’s touch as the guitarist applied his deft hands to stroking James. Kirk could feel the pulse of James’ excitement as he began to jack the blond’s cock, that rhythm mirroring his own heartbeat. Sliding down James and off the couch altogether, he knelt and found himself facing the first hard on of his life that wasn’t his own. He ran a fingertip over the head, getting a deep growl for his trouble, withdrew the fingertip and brought it to his own lips. Sticking out his tongue, he licked his finger, tasting James’ precum. Kirk looked up at James, licking his lips. James looked more than a little dazed as Kirk smiled that twisted smile before filling his mouth with cock. Kirk licked and sucked as though he was born to it. James had a hand on the back of Kirk’s head, not pushing him down, just resting there as his body twitched and he groaned in pleasure. Kirk put his free hand on James’ thigh, completing their circuit of lust. Kirk could feel the pressure mounting in James, knew he had to be close to coming. James tightened his grip on Kirk’s hair.

Some of that hair was yanked out of his head. Kirk found himself thrown over backwards as James launched himself onto the slender man. He latched onto Kirk’s neck viciously, drawing blood. James ground his teeth into Kirk’s flesh and came all over his black jeans. Kirk cried out in pain, flailing at the body pinning him to the floor. He managed to land a fist on the back of James’ skull, breaking the moment. James immediately let go of Kirk, staring in disbelief at his wound. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed.

Kirk blinked back tears. His vision cleared in time for him to see the door slam as James vanished shirtless into the night. He thinks about what they shared, and how James reacted. He thinks about leaving the band. He thinks about leaving town. He looks at his neck in the mirror and thinks about getting stitches. He thinks about karma.

Two days later, he wears a tank top to band practice. James wears a scared and sick expression every time Kirk catches his eye. Lars makes jokes about the size of the woman who blackened Kirk’s neck: was she part Rottweiler, woof woof? Cliff merely cocks an eyebrow in that cool way he has, as if to say, make sure you can handle what you’ve started.

Kirk stows a patch cord in James’ bag at the end of practice. It’s wrapped around a videocassette simply marked “Year One.”

*************************

“Man, that kinda freaks my shit out a little, you know?” I flopped onto the couch next to Lars. He nodded his agreement, passing me another beer. I definitely needed it. Kirk’s revelation shocked me in a way not much ever had. These were guys I had close physical contact with every day. We shared dressing rooms and showers and… I was still thinking about James in ways I shouldn’t be. That couldn’t be a good sign.

Lars asked in a petulant tone, “So now you have this great and secret romance going on, that you couldn’t trust anyone, even me, to know about? Except your boyfriend here almost killed Jase.”

“Does it sound like a fucking romance to you, Lars? It’s more like a sacrifice I have to make to the band.”

It dawned on me that what he was talking about could easily start to apply to me. Fuck. There was no way I was gonna suck off Hetfield to stay in the band. No way, no matter what twisted thoughts were in my head. I don’t care what other people do, but that’s not for me. 

“It sounds like an excuse. James is not the benevolent dictator of Metallica. You don’t have to do anything- you’re the fucking lead guitarist. Kind of important, right?” Lars turned to me. “Does this make any sense to you? Kirk is either doing James cos he fucking wants to, or James is basically a rapist. Since when does James make anyone do anything?” he asked defensively. He slammed his beer bottle down on a rickety end table. The bounce caused the lamp to fall over, changing the light on us from ambient to what felt like a search light in my eyes. Squinting, I tried to formulate an answer to any of Lars’ questions. I hopped up and started pacing again. 

“I guess what it comes down to, really, is whether you’re comfortable doing what you do with him… it’s been, what, five years you’ve been in Metallica, so you would think that should be enough time to prove you’re not going anywhere… and honestly it’s none of my business if you cats wanna get it on. Hell, more girls for me if you all are busy with each other…” 

Lars cut into my musing. “Whatever. He has to stop this shit. Maybe he really is gay, I don’t care. Maybe you are too,” he gestured at Hammet, his emphatic motion punctuation for his thought process. “Whoop de do. I don’t care. You fuckers can go on making shitty videocam porn forever if it gets your dick hard. What I do care about is the fact that shit got out of hand and Hetfield left our buddy out cold and alone. Jason, you could have died. Stupider things have happened. Save it for the hotel rooms, okay?” 

“Hey! I had no choice, all right? I was washing up, minding my own business, when James tackled me. I had no say in the matter at all! I didn’t do anything!”

“So you weren’t having hot monkey sex in the shower? We get the idea,” Lars summed up. “Fact is, you got hurt, and from what you’re saying, it sounds like James had you confused with his butt monkey here,” Lars kicked at Kirk. “Which is a problem. If there’s nothing going on between you, it’s a big problem.”

“What are we going to do? Stage an intervention? Ha. That’ll go over great- I value my life. I’m not going to have a talk with James that uses the word gay or rapist. Especially not in a group. You two don’t know anything about this side of him. He’ll either kill us or himself,” Kirk shifted on the bed as though he was fighting the urge to get up and run. Small pieces of paper littered the floor at his feet, and I realized he’d shredded a cigarette pack while we were talking.

“It’s up to one of you. I’ll fucking knock him out if I try.” The idea that it hadn’t just been another prank, that James had meant to hurt me, made my blood boil again. I had a certain amount of sympathy for him; there were certain aspects of this ridiculous situation that were just plain pathetic. 

Lars stood up, striding to the door with purpose in each step. “Fine. I’ll fucking do it. I have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, but I’ll do it.” He slammed the door behind him. I looked at Kirk, misery palpable on his face. Once again, I touched his shoulder. He looked up at me. The bright light from the overturned lamp prismed into a million pieces in his liquid eyes. We stayed still for a moment, breathing a mourning breath. It was fairly certain that the band was over. James would freak out and banish all of us from his life forever. The rest of us could never work together without him, he’d leave a gaping hole in our universe. 

“Is Metallica really that important to you?” I asked in a quiet voice. It certainly was to me, but I’d been a fan before I was a member, giving Metallica that vaguely mystical god-like presence in my life. The sheen had certainly worn off the guys themselves very quickly, but the idea of Metallica still held some star stuff. 

“If you’re asking if I’m willing to put myself at James’ service occasionally, yeah. Whatever. It’s not a big deal after this long. Lars will be mad for a bit, then it’ll sink in and things will go back to normal. Maybe. James is a lot different than Lars thinks he is- they spend so much time competing that they don’t see each other clearly. Lars is so independent he doesn’t understand what’s like to need support. He treats it like a joke.”

I dropped my hand from his shoulder and shrugged, wincing. “What else is he going to do? His best friend in the world is keeping a giant unnecessary secret from him. He has to minimize to keep it from being important enough to get between them.” Denial is a powerful thing. I planned to use it to it’s full advantage once I sobered up enough to forget this conversation.

“I want you to get this. James and I don’t have a relationship. We’re friends and bandmates, and that’s all. We don’t have a love thing. That’s not part of it. I couldn’t handle that, and I don’t think James could either.” Kirk seemed desperate for me to understand their dynamic, to acknowledge that they weren’t lovers in the traditional sense. The line between “willing to mess around with a guy” and “gay” was obviously important, and he needed me to see that he was still on the straighter side of the divide. It didn’t matter to me one way or the other. I just wanted to pretend that none of this was happening. I’d been questioning myself enough these last weeks without having this situation to mess me up even more.

“Tell you what, Kirk. I’m going to pretend I don’t know anything about any of this. About you, or James, or any of it. If James comes hollering at me when Lars gets done with him, I’m going to deny everything. That’s my plan, and I’m sticking to it.”

It was five am, but that didn’t deter Lars from beating on James’ door as if he was trying to knock it down. “Hetfiiiieeellld! Open this goddamn door right now! Right this instant, you fjols!”

James opened the door barely a crack before Lars plunged through it, using his shoulder as a battering ram. James hit the wall, obviously both sleep-addled and, judging from the smell of him, very drunk. Lars didn’t hesitate for a second. He swung and connected with James’ jaw. A sharp crack rewarded his efforts as the blond crumpled to the floor. “Vagnede. Get up so I can hit you again, du voldtægtsmand douchebag!” Strong drummer’s arms lifted the intoxicated man from the floor and tossed him over the arm of the small couch by the door. “What the hell is wrong with you? First that bullshit with Kirk, and now Jason? What the fuck is your problem?”

James dissolved into drunken tears. Big, blubbering sobs burst from him. “I don’t know! I didn’t mean to! It just happened!” he gasped.

Lars slapped him. Hard. “There’s no way that’s the truth. You don’t accidentally separate someone’s shoulder and leave gory teeth marks on their neck! Hvad har du tænker? What the fuck were you thinking? It’s Jason! Did you think he would just go along like Kirk?!” 

James had tears all over his face and snot clumped in his mustache. He was still bawling like a baby. He shook his head pathetically, arms raised around his head to ward off another blow. 

“Fuck!” Lars screamed. “Are you trying to break up the band? Do you want to ruin Metallica?” Shaking James roughly by the hair, he continued to shout directly in the miserable face of his singer, “Hvad fuck har du tænker?!” 

James was beyond words, shaking with pain. Lars shook James once more and flicked his fingers free of the crying man’s wet hair. He crossed his arms and stared at Hetfield, waiting for him to calm down. He wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation. Minutes passed glacially. James’ wracking sobs subsided into hiccupping bursts, then tapered into mute tears sliding down his nose and dripping off unattended. James couldn’t meet Lars’ gaze. He curled up on the couch and silently lay in the fetal position. Lars continued to stare, though his expression softened. He tapped a foot impatiently. 

“Well? Are you done?” he asked snippily. “Quit wallowing in whatever self-pity you’ve managed to dredge up this time.”

James finally managed to raise ice-blue eyes filled with regret, but his gaze slid away upon reaching the stone of Lars’ expression. He didn’t make any attempt to sit up, lying there defeated. “You don’t understand,” he choked out. 

“I’m pretty sure I do. You’re an asshole. A manipulative, lying asshole,” Lars spat. “I cannot believe the shit you pull. I just spent most of the night in a hospital emergency room with Jason because of you, only to bring him back here to find out you pretty much forced yourself on Kirk! What the fuck? Do I even know you?”

James didn’t answer. Lars paced the four feet in front of the couch. He dropped to a crouch and put his face right up to James, inches away. “Here’s a question for you. We’ve been friends, like goddamn brothers, for nearly ten years. How come I didn’t know you’re gay, James? How come you neglected to tell me that? Did it just slip your mind? Huh?” Venom dripped from every word. 

“I’m not…” 

“Logner! Don’t even try to deny it. I found your fucking tapes, James. I know. I know what you do,” Lars snapped. His anger fairly crackled the air in the small room. 

“I-”

“Tell me the fucking truth, James!” 

James shook his head fiercely. “I can’t!”

“Why in hell not?” 

“Because I don’t know what the truth is!” James roared. “I have no idea what I was thinking! Kirk started it, and I went along!” Hetfield may have been yelling, but he still wasn’t moving. His shoulders relaxed and he sank further into the couch.

“Kirk was pretty clear on it being your fault. Seems you have a history of trying to screw everyone in the band,” Lars drily commented, biting back a few more choice words. “’James needed me,’” he imitated Kirk perfectly, making the tone slightly whiny in derision. “If you were lying just to get some, it would almost make sense. You’re so fucking violent with him,” Lars clenched his fists, biting at his knuckle to keep him himself from lashing out again, “it made me sick. All that blood, just from you biting him. It’s sick,” he repeated, his voice trailing off until it was nearly a whisper. “What the fuck is wrong with you, James? Kirk is your fucking friend!” He sank down to his knees beside the couch. He cocked his head so his eyes matched James. The terror and desperation that met him took his breath away. He’d never seen James like this, didn’t know this side of him even existed. James was like a small child, fragile in his confusion. 

Lars touched him gently, as if he might break. “This has to stop now, James. You need to tell me if there’s anyone else you’ve hurt. Are there more of those fucking tapes out there?”

James’ voice was completely flat, as if he was a million miles away. “No, just the five of Kirk….” He trailed off. Almost inaudibly, he asked “Are you going to take them away from me?”

Lars raised a disgusted eyebrow. “What? Are they your prized possession or something?”

A single tear ran down James’ cheek. Lars felt his anger recede as the true depth of James’ misery rolled over him. He knew James wasn’t malicious or even truly aggressive by nature, and his protective instincts began to take over. His friend, hell; his brother, was broken. James needed help, not a beating, however much he might deserve that too. Lars wrapped his arms around his friend as best he could. James clung to him, and Lars had the feeling of dealing with a child again. They stayed like that for a long while, James silently crying into the Dane’s shoulder. 

Finally James quieted. He wiped at his face with a shirt sleeve. “How bad is it? Jason, I mean,” his wet eyes radiated guilt.

Lars climbed up on the couch, pushing his hair out of his face to buy himself some time. He twitched. “It’s bad,” he said simply. “His shoulder’s all messed up. Might be separated. When he woke up and found out, he freaked. We had to leave the hospital so I don’t have any answers. We just brought him back and got him wasted.” 

“Oh my god,” James stroked his mustache in horror, “I just ruined his career. And I don’t even know why.” 

Lars regarded his wild-eyed friend steadily. Keep calm, Ulrich, he told himself. Softly, deliberately, he probed, “Think, James. Honestly, what were you thinking? Or not thinking? You didn’t confuse Jase with Kirk no matter how drunk you were.”

James shrugged, mute. The struggle written on his face deepened. He bit his bottom lip in thought. He shrugged again. 

“Come on, James. It wasn’t just a random impulse or you’d be attacking people all the time. ‘Fess up.”

“I don’t know!”

Lars sighed. It looked like more tears were on their way. Lars was running out of patience. James wasn’t exactly self-aware, and breaking through his denial could take years.

“There were about a hundred girls backstage last night. Why didn’t you just pick up one of them? You’re the mighty Hetfield- you could have had every one of them. What made you think “oh, I’m not in the mood for pussy tonight. I’ll bite Newkid instead?” What possessed you, man?”

James was silent as Lars watched realization cross his features. James was figuring something out, that much was obvious. But could he say it? Voicing his reasoning would make it true, real. Even telling Lars the truth might be more than James could handle.  
“Earlier on, I saw him at soundcheck with Queensryche. He was up there jamming with the guys, having a grand fucking time, trading bass lines with Eddie and singing along with Geoff.”

“…And?” Lars prodded.

James sighed, both guilty and wistful. “And I started to wonder if he was going to jump ship. Jase looked so happy with the Queensryche guys.”

“And their fucking bass player! That they already have! Who is friends with Jason, and all of us. Why would you think that?”

James’ voice was small and scared. “I always think that. Every time anyone is having a better time with other people than with me.”

“I seriously doubt he was having a better time with Queensryche than with us,” Lars tried to reassure him. “How does this lead to Jason in the hospital? Was it a punishment for having fun?”

The silence came again. The back of Lars’ brain started to hum Anesthesia- this was certainly like pulling teeth. He waited. 

“I guess…” James broke off. Lars waited.

“I….” James failed again. He hung his head, blond hair brushing his knees. “I guess I wanted to mark him.”

Lars didn’t even bother with a question, just kept waiting. James would have to drag it out himself.

“Mark him, make sure he wasn’t going to leave….people would know he was mine.”

Lars couldn’t help himself. “Yours? He’s a person, not a thing! He’s also a very straight thing, from what I know. Jase isn’t leaving the band any time soon, or at least he wasn’t til you pulled this shit. Now I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes. More than you can ever imagine,” Lars was brutally honest. “James, you more or less committed sexual assault against Kirk, and then tried to do the same thing to Jason. For no good reason. You’re afraid of them having their own lives. Are you afraid I’m going to leave too?”

A thin smile ghosted across James. “It never occurred to me that was an option.”

Lars returned the tight smile. “Probably because it’s not. Not for me, not for Kirk, not for Jason.”

James nodded. 

A couple of months passed before James spoke to me again. He spent his time on the bus asleep, in the hotel behind a locked door. Truth be told, he was avoiding all of us. I started to worry about him when I saw him in the hall one morning on my way back from the hotel pool and he was so drunk he needed to hold the wall. I asked if he was all right, he shrugged me off, I went my way. When I got to my room I thought hard, showered, and called a cab. I had some shopping to do. 

A few hours and six days worth of per diem later, I headed back to the hotel with what I hoped would be a remedy to the band’s problems, or at least a temporary fix that would get us on speaking terms again. We needed to get together on something. I figured something this harmless would a good place to start. Tomorrow would tell.

I got the hotel maids to deliver the gifts to my band mates and the guys in Queensryche. Each guy got the same thing; a basketball, and a jersey with the tour name on it- Damaged Justice on black for us, and Operation: Tourcrime on white for them. The package also had a pre-printed booklet to keep track of stats with a page for each stop left on the tour. I couldn’t think of a better way to pull a bunch of super competitive guys like my band together than making them battle it out against another group. Presuming any of them showed up at all.

The next morning I practically held my breath until 10 am, when the guys started to show up. Lars and Kirk were warming up with Eddie, Chris and Mike, playing a round of HORSE, laughing and trash talking. Geoff practiced jump shots while I tried to block him. Ten fifteen came and went. Ten twenty, twenty-five. We decided not to wait, and launched into the first half without James. It didn’t seem like he was coming anyways.

Even with our secret weapon (Lars has an amazing jump shot for a midget!), Queensryche kicked our asses, an embarrassing 45 to 80. I tried to be sanguine about it, but I’m pretty serious about my basketball. Also demoralized by the fact James didn’t even bother to show up, I cringed watching from the side of the stage later that night as Geoff announced to 10,000 people that “Metallica may be headlining this tour, and they may be the greatest band in the world, but they suck at basketball!” To make matters even worse, they followed that up with about ten seconds worth of Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust. Ouch.

Geoff may actually be a genius. James cannot stand to be made fun of. The comments he made onstage that night lit a fire under James. He showed up the next morning for our next match, looking a little worse for wear and still a bit drunk. He was rambunctious and ready to settle the score. His conviction that no one should ever be allowed to beat Metallica at anything was infectious, and the game soon evolved from light-hearted friendly fun to all-out blood sport. Kirk and I began to work some strategy, blocking the Queensryche guys as best we could to help Lars make the run down the court for a shot. James was basically just trying to knock over anyone who got near him. He spent a lot of the game sitting on the sidelines doing penalty time. In the end, we lost again, and Geoff made a point of letting the world know again. 

That’s how it started. By the third stop, we had officially added “Team Justice” basketball practice to the daily to-do list, playing after the gig to burn off the energy that would usually have gone to drinking. Our shows got better in step with our basketball, and we actually won the fourth game against Queensryche. I scored an improbable 3 pointer in the final minute of the game, which earned me high fives from Lars and Kirk.

The show that night was intense. James pushed all of us to keep up, playing the same set list as always at a more frenetic pace. We were right there in the celebratory pocket with him. Seek & Destroy came up in the set list, and James told the crowd about our game, describing in great detail how I had saved the game and scored the winning basket. He waved me over to him, draped an arm around me, and announced that I was going to be singing. “Jase here really knows the meaning of Seek & Destroy!” 

That was the high point of the tour for me, shows-wise. Everybody likes to have their ego stroked, and James was surely stroking mine. I couldn’t decide whether I was more excited about getting to do the vocals or that James was touching me. He’d been making an obvious point of not doing so, especially when our band mates were in the room. If we happened to touch at all, he would draw away as though my skin were acid. It made me very uncomfortable, as though I’d done something wrong. To have him lay a hand on me in a friendly way, especially in front of so many people, felt like a breakthrough. We might get back to normal after all. 

We went along like that for a month or so, rebuilding friendships inside the band and outside too. We took to having lunch with the Queensryche guys and travelling on each other’s buses to jam or play cards. We traded art books and watched Kirk’s endless collection of horror movies. He seemed to get new ones from fans every day. After we watched them, he’d mail them home so they wouldn’t get lost. It was a little ritual he did with fans. If they brought him a movie, he’d get their autograph on it. Everyone got a little kick out of it. James certainly thought it was funny. He was finding a lot of things funny these days. It was great to see that wide grin beaming at me instead of the sullen face I’d first gotten to know. We took to spending a lot of time together, just watching sports or whatever. 

I still spent too much time thinking about James, watching him when I probably shouldn’t have. Somehow the knowledge that he was gay made it worse. Now I didn’t necessarily have to feel guilty about my compulsion. Which made me even more confused. Even when I tried to think about what might happen between us, it was always coloured by the memory of the hospital, of Kirk’s experience, of James’ total shut down directly afterwards. Things could go horribly wrong, and I didn’t know how to tread lightly here. I went back to my old pattern of staring when I thought he wasn’t looking. It was a lot harder to do now that he wasn’t drunk so often. The better James got, the worse it got for me. He developed a habit of putting a hand of my shoulder when we talked about serious subjects, which usually had the effect of wiping my mind of any thought other than kissing him. Which I clearly wasn’t going to do. I’m straight. I like everything about women, their legs and breasts and the smooth curve where hip tapers into waist. I like their shiny hair. And I was still thinking about James. His fucking shiny hair, and that line on his hip where his pelvic bone sticks out. I shouldn’t even know that line exists!

I tried to empty my mind. I took to smoking weed every chance I got, spending most of my waking hours as close to green out as possible. Wake and bake had a negative effect on my performance on the court. I tried to excuse it by claiming I had a cold, that I was just tired. I really did feel like crap, coughing every two minutes until my vision blurred. It didn’t induce me to stop or cut back. I needed that blankness, the numbness that weed brought. I needed to get James out of my head more than I needed to breathe. I needed more than anything to make those thoughts go away. I bought vast quantities of girl on girl porn when we stopped in Miami. I went out of my way to make sure I was never alone with James, even if it meant spending the whole night with whoever I could pick up after the show. The girls were always pretty enough (our road crew knew that our “guests” didn’t have to be smart, they just had to live up to Lars’ expectations appearance-wise), but I felt bad about using them. I knew they were there of their own free will and all, but I also knew it would hurt them if they figured out that I was bedding wavy haired blondes to keep me away from the very same blond they probably came for! Kirk started referring to me as “Motley Crue,” singing Girls, Girls, Girls when I walked onto the bus; comparing me to a scumbag like Vince Neil got under my skin, just not enough to stop me. 

James tried to talk to me. He came to my room, following me up after basketball. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t meet his gaze, certainly couldn’t answer his question. What was wrong with me? I lied, said the road was getting to me, that I missed home and my friends. We’d been touring for over a year. Everyone got burned out once in a while, and dealt with it in his own way. Mostly by self-destructing, although a rumour was circulating that an unnamed member of Anthrax was leaving horrible things in his hotel rooms for the maids to eventually find. Playing Hide & Seek with smelly cheese made my peccadilloes seem completely sane in comparison. 

James mulled over my excuses. They were flimsy, but the best I could do. Judging from the look on his face, my paranoia took over. Hetfield didn’t believe a word I said. He was gonna call me on my shit, and then it would be all over. I’d be busted or outed or whatever the right term for this was. My heart hammered a tattoo of panic in my chest. 

“Are you sure that’s all it is? It’s pretty easy to overdo it out here. I should know. You guys had to bring me back from the edge not too long ago. If you’re not ok, just say so.” James turned those soft eyes to me, his expression the unguarded look of concern he only wore when he sensed real trauma. 

“I’m fine, James. Really.” I tried to meet his gaze, to look sober and pulled together. I failed totally. My eyes slid right off his face to the side, and I looked down in shame. Damn it, now I was looking right at his torso, those shoulders that tormented me in my dreams, those arms I wanted so badly to be in. 

“Why are you lying to me? Did I do something else to piss you off?” James asked bluntly.

“- - - - ep. Er…umm,” I couldn’t force words out. I didn’t have any. The jig was up. If I kept mumbling nonsense like a school boy, James would think I was just stupid. I gave up. I’d been pacing around the room, trying to keep as much space between us as possible. In about a half second, I crossed the ten feet separating me from James. He looked shocked as I plunged both my hands into that mane of hair, kissing him desperately. It took the world’s longest two seconds for James to kiss me back. After that it was all fire and hands and I don’t really remember the details, just the relief and amazement that I was actually making out with James. With another guy. Me, the straightest man on the planet. Oh god. It was so much better than anything I’d ever had before. James’ moustache was foreign, an unavoidable reminder that he was all man. It was an incredible turn on. James wasted no time, putting his hands up the back of my shirt as he snaked them around me. His big hands made sense on my body, holding my shoulders like they’d been made to fit there. He pulled my shirt over my head, breaking our kiss for an instant. I breathed in the musky smell of him as he captured my mouth again, his hands roaming my skin. I dropped a hand down to his ass and spread my feet for balance as he leaned into my body, putting a knee between my legs. We fit together in ways I’d never even thought of. With James’ knee between my legs, my cock was pinned in the space at the juncture where his leg met his pelvis, his hard on running the length of mine on the other side. I could feel the heat coming off it, feel his heartbeat matching mine. My head swam. This couldn’t really be happening. James took a step forwards, toppling me onto the bed without breaking the kiss. He moved his lips to my neck, and I groaned. James slid a hand down my side, hooking his thumb into the waistband of my track pants. An eternal second crawled by, and the pants were gone, sliding down my leg with James’ fingers setting fire to my skin on the way. He straddled my thighs, wrapping a big hand around my cock. I looked up at him, realizing he was still fully dressed. The thought was completely wiped away as James started to stroke me, varying his rhythm and the pressure on my erection until he found the combination that made me move beneath him, arching up to meet his downstroke. I twisted a hand into the sheets beside me, fingers clenching spasmodically. I reached out to touch him, but he pushed my hands away. I must have looked as overwhelmed as I felt, because he slowed down a little and cupped my face with his free hand. “It’s okay, Jase. It’s okay, it’s only me.”

Passing the point of no return, my orgasm triggered a flood of tears. There was no way for this to be okay. I didn’t even know who I was any more. All the things I believed about myself were up for debate now. I had no anchor, no center. James kissed me softy and held me as I cried. Eventually I fell asleep. When I woke, he was gone.

My self respect must have gone with him. I couldn’t imagine a world where what happened could just be in the past. I also couldn’t imagine being in any sort of relationship with a dude. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how that was supposed to work. James- well, as per usual I had no idea what James was thinking. Was it pity? Is that why he wouldn’t let me touch him? Did he find me repulsive for some reason? Why did I care if I was as fucking straight as I thought I was? Obviously that was wrong. I couldn’t be straight after all. I definitely wasn’t gay. I couldn’t be gay. Gay was swishy. Gay was drag queens and make up and calling people darling all the time. I didn’t do any of those things. My ass was Exit Only! I might have messed around with James (oh, god. Please let that happen again!), but I was still straight. We didn’t actually have sex- sex implies penetration. There was none of that, not even a blow job. See? Straight. 

This was getting ridiculous. I was lying, and I knew it. I couldn’t stop. I thought of all the ways I’d disappointed my parents in the last few years; dropping out of school to move out West and join a band, getting married and divorced in quick succession, not giving my mom the grandkids she wanted. Sorry Mom, no grandkids from me! She would die of embarrassment if one of her kids was weird. Nope, I couldn’t be that guy, the one who broke his momma’s heart. I thought about all the times in school when people made fun of me for having long hair. The day Danny Tyndal gave me a bloody nose in the ninth grade because “Gull Lake High is the Blue Devils, not the Brownie Hounds!” He was a total dick, but the memory stuck with me. I thought about how hard it must have been for James when Dave turned on him. I wondered how many of my friends I would lose if this ever got out. 

I dug through my pants pockets for my weed. There was only a little left, enough for a pinner. I’d have to go out and face the world if I wanted to get baked enough to make this go away. Then again, I wasn’t sure there was enough marijuana on the planet for that. Glancing at the clock, I realized it was around 4 am, and there wouldn’t be anyone to pick up off of anyways. Even rock stars don’t get round the clock service. Maybe Madonna does. I certainly don’t. Of all the times to run dry, this was the worst. What was I going to do? In a flash of misbegotten inspiration, I rifled through my suitcase. I was sure I still had pain meds left over from having my shoulder separated. I didn’t like pain pills, they made it hard to think. Which was exactly what I was after. The label said to take one so I took four. That oughta do the trick.

It didn’t. Twenty minutes later, I was still wide awake, and still freaking out. I did the sensible thing. I took four more. Then I got pissed off that James was doing this to me, and took off down the hall to his room. He had some explaining to do. I was half way down the endless corridor when the world started to twist and sway under my feet. The light fixtures kaleidoscoped as I reached James’ door. I knocked, but then again it might just have been my face bouncing off as I tumbled to the floor.

“Sir, you have to let go of him. Sir, I can’t do my job this way. Sir, you’ve got to let go of him so we can do our jobs BEFORE HE DIES!” The voice was familiar from a million tv programs: the overworked and frustrated emergency responder. Who were they talking to? What show was on at this time of night? My throat was dry. I idly observed that I didn’t seem to be breathing, but I was so relaxed that I didn’t care. I was content just to float away.

“I’m not moving. Work around me!” James roared. Maybe this wasn’t TV after all. I tried to move my head as droplets of something splashed onto my face. No response from my body at all. A sudden sharp pain in my left arm. “Jase, come back. Jase, wake up. Please wake up,” James begged as he saw my eyes open slowly. My head was cradled in his lap. “Please, Jase. Don’t leave. Don’t die. Don’t die. Please.” 

I tried to smile so he would know I understood, and threw up all over both of us instead. The paramedics hustled me to the bathroom, where one of them sat with me while I vomited for what felt like hours. She patiently fed me sips of water from a plastic cup in between rounds of retching. “So I guess the after-show got a little out of hand, huh?” she asked. “What did you take at the party?”

“No party,” I whispered. My voice seemed awfully loud. “Prescription.”

“Sure, honey. That’s what they all say.”

I fumbled in my pocket and fished out the pill bottle. Handing it over, I collapsed against the bath tub. I was exhausted. There was nothing left in my system to upchuck, and my heart rate was pitiful. Sleep beckoned, but I was sure these people weren’t going to leave me alone. 

She looked at the label, and then back at me. “How many did you take?”

“I don’t remember.” I shook my head. My hair stuck to the edge of my mouth. Everything was bright and disgusting. I closed my eyes.

“And that tall drink of water out there, is he the reason?”

I was too out of it to lie.

“Yeah."

“Why would you throw away someone who loves you so much?”

“Wha?”

“He’s been holding you for the last three hours, praying to god that you don’t die. Gotta count for something.” 

“He.. lef..”

“And came right back, now, didn’t he? All I need to know, sweetie, is whether you want him looking after you this morning, or if you want to take a ride to the hospital with us. We can’t leave you alone.”

I was in no shape to decide anything. “James…” I questioned. 

“Oh, he’s coming with you, no matter what you decide. It was all I could do to keep him outta this bathroom. That boy loves you, an’ soon as you clean up, you’ll just be the cutest pair ever.” 

“Not gay…”

She squeezed my hand. “Course you’re not, sweetie. But when the Lord sees fit to give you someone to love, you take it any way you can.”

I surprised myself by managing to throw up again.

James told the guys I had the flu. I spent the day shivering and shaking in his bottom bunk on the bus. Mine was on top and totally out of the question. Kirk and Lars took one look at the mess I was and decided to stay away, hopping a lift with Queensryche. James didn’t stop touching me the entire ride. I slept with him spooning me for the most part, and when awake enough to sit up I leaned against his chest, his arms around me. He didn’t ask any questions about the previous night, simply stayed where I needed him to be.

By around six I was starting to feel a bit more human. James had given me three more shots of Naloxone, the anti-opiate drug the paramedics used, and aside from being a little nauseous I was ok. I drank a pot of tea to myself. When we arrived at the venue, I needed a shower in the worst way. I was still wobbly on my feet. This posed a problem. Playing the show was a non-issue. I was going on, and if I fell and cracked my head open, it was my own damn fault. Kirk and Lars conferred, arguing quietly in a corner of the dressing room. Kirk sighed visibly. I guessed he’d lost the fight. He came over to me, hands stuffed in his pockets, being so nonchalant as to be obvious. “So, uh, if you, uh, need help getting cleaned up before the show I guess I can help,” he blurted. “Dude, you stink!”

That’s how I wound up showering with Kirk. Or at least near Kirk. He made a point of not looking, and so did I. I had one hand on the wall for support, and that’s where I kept my gaze. There would be questions, ones I didn’t want to answer. The day on the bus was bizarre at best. The hot water soothed my aching neck and the tension in my shoulders started to melt. I began to feel human again. I was washing my hair for the second time when Kirk indicated he was leaving if I was all right. 

“Sure. Much better now. See you in the dressing room,” I waved him off. The steam rose around me, forming beads of condensation on the tiles. I went back to scrubbing my hair. It had sticky bits in it, and I was afraid I knew what they were. 

A low pitched growl reached my ears. I turned to find James framed by the doorway, a white towel around his waist. “I used to love showers,” James commented, leaning against the wall. “I think I’ve hated every one I’ve taken since you joined the band.”

I took a breath. James was, to the best of my knowledge, sober. The odds that he was going to hurt me again were slim to none. Still, this whole scene put me on edge. I backed up a little and played it cool. “Really? Why’s that?”

“Because either you’re in it, with that dorky fuckin’ smirk you wear all the time and those eyes that see right through me, or you’re not, which means I missed my chance to look at you.”

“I don’t entirely think I’m someone you should be looking at anyway. I can’t deal with this, James. I don’t think I can be what you want me to be.”

The water echoed off the walls, filling the silence. James stared at me for a long time. “What exactly do you think I want you to be? Afraid? Wasted? Dead?” his voice rose with every word. I was sure everyone down the hall could hear exactly what he was saying. 

“I don’t know! All I know is that I threw away everything I knew about myself last night to kiss you, and when it was over you were gone. I had nothing left. You have your little kinks, and everyone tolerates them because you’re the Mighty Hetfield,” I spat sarcastically, “But that was the single biggest risk I ever took in my life, and I guess I just wasn’t good enough for you. All I do all day every day is think about you. I guess I thought it might have been the same for you. I was wrong. I gave you everything I had and you walked out.”

“I didn’t walk out. I went for a walk. You were sleeping. I was coming back. I needed to figure out what to do. I don’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to this shit. Last time I heard, I’m some kind of monster.” James’ voice trailed off, leaving sadness palpably hanging in the steam. 

“You’re not.” 

“Maybe I am. I don’t know how to be with people, except to take what I want,” the flatness of his tone emphasizing his resignation, his crossed arms weak protection from his own judgment. 

“You didn’t take anything from me,” I pushed my wet hair away from my face. “I started that, remember?” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone started with me and then made me out to be the bad guy when I finished it,” he said ruefully. “Generally, you get to be the bad person when your … when the other person tries to off themselves right afterwards.”

He doesn’t know how to fill that blank either. That’s not the point. Get with it, Newsted, I told myself. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself! Honestly, I wasn’t!”

“It just seemed like a good time to take a handful of pills? Throw yourself at me and then try to die?” James moved into the room, anger propelling him my way, fist clenched. His stride was too much for the towel that fell to the tile behind him. 

“I just needed to make it stop! Everything is fucked up and wrong and I ’m all wrong and I- WANTED- IT- TO- STOP!” My own anger started to boil. There was no way in hell I was going to end up crying like a girl over James Hetfield again. Hatred for my weakness pushed me to the edge. I’d lost control, and this is what it got me. Never again. 

“What’s fucked up, Jason? Tell me what’s wrong here. Let me guess- it’s ok for me to be queer, we can all just ignore that, we can all pretend it’s not happening, or that I have some sort of bizarre attachment disorder that causes me to randomly bite people, but it’s not ok for you. The fucking Michigan farm boy is a real man, right? How long have you been telling yourself that shit?”

Hearing it all out loud like that, it sounded fucking stupid. Really stupid. Those were more or less the words I’d been using in my head, and it was downright embarrassing. James must have gone through the exact same thing when he first fell for a guy, and instead of asking for help, I went off the deep end of dumb. Not that I was about to admit it. “Yeah, running around drunk off your ass all the time attacking people in the shower is so honest. What have you been telling yourself?”

James stopped dead. His face contorted with the effort of suppressing laughter that came pealing out in spite of his attempt. “The same damn thing!”

The outlandish situation was too much for me. Two grown men, buck naked, arguing about who had a worse case of being in the closet. I started to giggle. Pretty soon it was a full on laugh and then James and I were in each other’s arms, hysterical. My sides started to hurt, but I couldn’t stop. We wound up sitting side by side on the floor of the shower, leaning against the wall. His fingers laced in mine, I looked in those blue eyes and found my answers. It didn’t matter who I was before- only who we would become.


End file.
